


Held In My Heart

by oneletterdiff



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Pining, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:33:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18902152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneletterdiff/pseuds/oneletterdiff
Summary: Gendry was never not going to be Arya's. They find their way back to each other - before the war against the White Walkers, and again after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Follows the book 'verse, though certain aspects were borrowed from / inspired by the show. Expect one or two more chapters to follow. Title from "I Wanna Be Yours" by the Arctic Monkeys - "Secrets I have held in my heart / Are harder to hide than I thought."

**** He was never not going to be hers.

From the moment she revealed to him that she was really Arya Stark of Winterfell, Gendry was forever hers. He would never forget her grey eyes wide with nervousness as she confessed her true identity. He promised her that her secret was safe with him. _I will never betray your trust_ , he also silently promised. He followed her to Harrenhal; he would have followed her to Riverrun, to Winterfell, to wherever she went.

Then the Hound kidnapped her from the Brotherhood, and Gendry’s understanding of the things to come fell apart. He still remembered the rain against his skin as he chased after her in the night, calling her name until his voice grew hoarse. He still remembered the chill that ran through his blood when he learned about the massacre at the Twins — the Red Wedding, they had called it. He still remembered every second of the devastation that was losing her.

As the war dragged on, Gendry found himself back in the smithy. _Beric may have knighted me, but I’m no true knight_ , he reminded himself, hammer in hand. He didn’t know how to be a knight without Arya. In another lifetime, he’d be the knight gallant to her ladyship. Chivalry would allow his ardent admiration of her, with no expectation that he would ever do anything about it. And he wouldn’t. He knew his place was to follow her, and protect her, but never to love her.

But still he loved her. He dreamed about her sometimes. Her fierce face and sharp tongue. The way she trusted him. That trust meant everything to him. He had never been trusted before. Not like that. He still had never been trusted like that since then, and it was her trust more than Arya herself that invaded his dreams.

_She almost made me feel worthy_ , Gendry mused, after he woke one morning after one those dreams. In the dream, Arya had gripped his arm tightly and he had sworn to make the journey north with her. 

Any semblance of worthiness was quick to fade away whenever he dreamed other things about her. It wasn’t often, but on occasion, he would dream of her, older now — the woman he imagined she would have grown up to be had she lived — naked and in his arms. After those dreams, Gendry would hate himself. It was torture to imagine what might have happened were Arya still alive, still with him. He knew, guiltily, that he never could have had her. She would never kiss him, never slip into his bed, never whisper hot and heavy in his ear how much she desired him. He never would have considered it if she had lived, but it was all too easy to imagine it, knowing that he would never see her again.

Until he did.

It had been painful to ride north to Winterfell with Brienne, knowing that he should have done this with Arya years earlier. But the King in the North had requested a blacksmith who knew how to work with dragonglass and Valyrian steel, and Tobho Mott had taught Gendry both arts during his apprenticeship. _I should have known I’d end up smithing for her brother_ , Gendry had thought with grim good humor, though it was Jon Snow not Robb Stark, in Winterfell not Riverrun.

Gendry liked Jon. He recalled Arya speaking fondly of her bastard brother. _He was her favorite, wasn’t he?_ Gendry tried to remember. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to tell Jon that he had known Arya. He hadn’t been able to tell Brienne either. It hurt too much to try to speak of her. 

It hurt to look at Jon sometimes. He had the same long face and same piercing grey gaze as Arya had. Sometimes Gendry couldn’t stand to be around Jon because he missed Arya so much. It was always easy then to retreat to the forge and throw himself into his work. It was less easy when Jon sought him out in the forge one day.

“Brienne tells me you’re Robert Baratheon’s bastard,” said the King in the North, grey eyes watching Gendry closely. “One of the few that remain.”

Gendry set down his hammer and squared to face Jon. “That is what I’ve been told,” he said, “Though the Baratheons never claimed me the way they did Edric Storm.”

Jon stepped closer. “You do look very much like him,” he said quietly.

“That is what I’ve been told,” said Gendry again. He had never seen King Robert, but by the Seven, he had heard so many times how much he resembled the man who must be his father.

“I would legitimize you, if you wanted,” Jon proposed, surprising Gendry and immediately making him think of Arya.

_Too bloody lowborn to be kin to m’lady high,_ he had told her once, years ago. That had always been a festering sore spot between them once they met up with the Brotherhood. If Arya were still alive, Gendry wouldn’t have hesitated to accept Jon’s offer of legitimization. But he didn’t see the point without her. “I am happy as a blacksmith,” he told Jon. “I don’t need any fancy titles or a castle, just a hammer and a forge.”

And it was true. Gendry didn’t need anything more that — not until the day that Winterfell was abuzz with the arrival of the king’s sister. Gendry heard the whispers and assumed it was Princess Sansa. She had been missing, just as Arya had been, but she hadn’t been at the Red Wedding. She must be still be alive. _All Arya wanted was to get back to Winterfell, and now she’s dead and all her siblings are home_. The thought kept Gendry in the forge. He had no need to witness the homecoming of Arya’s older sister.

There was a feast prepared in a flurry to celebrate her arrival. Gendry had planned on eating alone in his modest accommodations until Brienne came by the smithy. “Are you coming?” she asked. “You’re invited, you know.”

Gendry knew it was because of his father. Kings didn’t invite blacksmiths, no matter how good, to banquets, but they did invite royal bastards. _And our fathers were best friends_ , thought Gendry with a sigh as he relented and followed Brienne to the great hall. The two had become friends after their journey together from the Riverlands to Winterfell. Gendry supposed he had a soft spot for lady warriors. 

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if the feast was a waste of time and resources while the White Walkers still posed a threat. Brienne laughed when he said as much to her. “You can’t fault Jon for wanting to celebrate having his sister back, or the North for honoring the sudden return of their lost princess,” she told him as they picked their way through the crowded tables.

While Brienne took her place, as befitting the Lady of Tarth, at the table near the the dais, Gendry slid onto the bench at a lower table with the retainers of the North’s lesser lords. The feast was already underway. Brienne must have left to retrieve him, Gendry realized with a twinge of guilt. But he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

Then he looked at the king’s table.

 

* * *

 

Gendry could barely eat for the remainder of banquet. All he could think was, _She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive._ He couldn’t stop looking at her. She was alive. She was here. She was smiling at her brother, grey eyes gleaming as he had so often seen in his dreams.

_Look at me, Arry_ , he thought desperately, silently begging her to notice him. But he was just another face in the crowd, and she never once saw him. It was both a disappointment and a relief. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face her, the ghost that had loomed so large in his mind for years.

After the feast, Gendry restrained his need to go lunging straight to the king’s table. He knew it wasn’t befitting for a bastard blacksmith to seek out the Princess of Winterfell. _Too bloody lowborn to be kin to m’lady high_. The thought returned unbidden to his mind as he watched her leave with Jon. 

The hall emptied, but still Gendry sat at his table. It was like the sight of her had rendered him immobile. _Stop being so dramatic, you stupid bull_ , he told himself in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Arya. _Get up!_

“Why are you moping?” asked Brienne, surprising him by suddenly sitting down across him. “Still mourning the loss of precious time and resources?” she teased.

Gendry shook his head. “I didn’t… I thought it was going to be the other sister.” His voice sounded hollow to his own ears.

Brienne gave him a calculating look. “Gendry,” she began, stopped, sighed, and began again. “Gendry, why does that make a difference to you?”

“I… It doesn’t,” he lied. He knew it shouldn’t. There was no reason for it to make a difference to him. But there was a reason, because his shameful little secret was that he knew Arya. 

Brienne made an unconvinced noise, and Gendry all but fled from the room. He knew he would have to address the truth eventually; Arya would see him if nothing else. But he had spent years decidedly not talking about Arya, and he wasn’t sure how to begin now.

The next day found him back in the smithy. There was still much work to be done before the next battle against the White Walkers, whenever that would be. Weaponcrafting was easy for him — he knew exactly what he needed to do in the forge. It was everything else that was difficult. But working always helped cleared his head. The stories always said that Robert Baratheon was made to have a warhammer in his hand, and Gendry supposed there was some poetic justice in the way his bastard son was made to have a blacksmith’s hammer in his hand.

Then the door to the forge flew open, and any clarity Gendry had achieved was immediately lost as he watched Arya stride in, glaring at him. For a second, he was back at Harrenhal, where Arya visiting him in the smithy was a regular occurrence. But Arya was older now. She was older and angry and opening her mouth to ask, “What are you doing here?”

“Arya…” Gendry’s mouth was dry, his heart pounding as she took a step further into the smithy.

“I said,” she hissed, “What are you doing here?”

Panic began to rise in Gendry’s chest. He wasn’t sure what she wanted from him or why she was so angry. “I’m making swords for your brother!” he blurted out. “Just like you always said I could!”

She was on him in a flash. Gendry didn’t have time to react before he realized she was embracing him, her arms tight around him. “You stupid idiot,” she whispered pressing her face against his chest. 

Instinctively, Gendry returned her embrace, wrapping his arms around her just as tightly. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I thought you were dead. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Arya made a choking sound that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Gendry, I’m not mad that you’re here at Winterfell,” she told him and pulled back enough to fix him with a probing gaze. “I’m mad that you’re here in the forge. Why didn’t you come to me when you saw me at the feast last night?”

“I…” Gendry had no good answer for her. “Arry… It wouldn’t have been proper.” Belatedly, he added, “M’lady.”

He expected her to chafe against the title, as she had so many times in the past, but Arya surprised him with a crooked smile. “Which is it?” she asked and stepped out of his arms. “Arry? Or m’lady? Which am I to you?”

“M’lady…” began Gendry, noting the way her eyes darkened and her face fell. “I know that you should be m’lady. But you’re always going to be Arry to me.”

“I’m not a lady,” said Arya simply, and it showed how much older she was than the girl Gendry had known before. She wasn’t scowling or huffing or shoving him over. She simply stated it like a fact. “Not really. Not anymore.” Before he could ask her what she meant by that, she continued, “And anyways, Jon says you’re Robert Baratheon’s son. I should be calling you ‘m’lord.’” She didn’t laugh, but Gendry saw the merriment in her eyes.

As much as he loved seeing her happy, Gendry had to ask the question that he’d been wondering since he first saw again. “Arya, how did you survive the Red Wedding?” he asked. “Where you have been for all these years?”

Arya did laugh then. “I’ve been nowhere, being no one,” she told him cryptically. “And I was never at the Red Wedding. We got there too late, and the Hound wouldn’t let me die with Robb and my mother.”

“I’m glad. I’m really glad you’re not dead,” said Gendry. He touched her arm gently, then, surprising himself with his own boldness, her face too.

Arya sighed and leaned into his touch. Eyes closing, she reminded him, “We may still die yet.”


	2. Chapter 2

It was easy to forget about everyone else when Winterfell burned. Arya had spent years fighting to return home only to lose it all over again. She knew it was selfish not to care about devastation of the White Walker invasion, but it paled in comparison to the old wound torn freshly apart. 

When what was left of Bran revealed that Jon wasn’t their brother at all but rather their cousin, the product of a secret marriage between Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, the Dragon Queen claimed Jon as her kin and took him with her to King’s Landing. _He was my kin first!_ Arya wanted to scream, but even in her grief she knew it was a fool’s errand to rage against a queen with three dragons.

In Jon’s absence, the title of King in the North fell to Rickon, which meant it fell to Arya until he was old enough. She didn’t want it. _None of this fucking matters when Winterfell lies in ruin and Jon has sold himself to the south,_ she thought bitterly.

“I do not know how to rule,” she confessed to the boy who looked like Bran but held so little of her younger brother. “I only know how to kill.”

The boy who was and wasn’t Bran surprised her with a smile. “You won’t need to,” he told her.

Sansa arrived the next day with an entourage from the Vale. She had survived. She was clever and poised and suited perfectly to rule, and Arya was free to retreat into her room and drown in her anguish. 

In her self-imposed isolation, Arya noticed little of the changes happening around her. Plans to rebuild the North began to take shape; a third Targaryen, by the name of Aegon, joined Daenerys and Jon in King’s Landing; various bastards were legitimized to continue the lines of nobles houses that had been all but wiped out during the preceding wars; and none of it meant anything to Arya. 

It was only later, much later, when Winterfell had been rebuilt enough for the remaining Starks to return to their ancestral home, that she began to take note of how the world still turned whilst she had been lost in her grief. The council surrounding Sansa was filled with a mix of faces, some recognizable and some new. Her older sister’s influence had worked to temper some the wildness Rickon had developed during his time on Skagos. Brienne, the lady warrior who had vouched for Jaime Lannister’s change of heart, was now an almost constant companion of Sansa’s.

And Gendry was gone.

The discovery brought first a rush of panic, followed quickly by a wave of guilt for having not noticed it until then. _When did he leave?_ Arya was desperate to know. _Why did he leave?_ She couldn’t ask Sansa. Even if Sansa had kept track of the movements of a bastard blacksmith, Arya refused to let Sansa see how much it mattered to her. Rationally, she knew that Sansa was older now, that Sansa wouldn’t mock her, but after a childhood of bitter feelings, it was hard to ignore the old fear. 

In the end, she didn’t have to ask anyone, because Sansa called her into her solar and said, “Bran tells me you’re wondering about a certain blacksmith.” She was only the one who still referred to their brother by his childhood nickname.

“He’s been called to some higher purpose and he still snitches on my secrets?” asked Arya with grim good humor. She was still recovering from her solitude, still relearning how to be social—especially with a sister she hadn’t known in years—but she thought the joke would land.

Sansa graced her with a quiet laugh. “Gendry left a moon’s turn after Jon did,” she told Arya. She didn’t ask why Arya was wondering after a blacksmith, which Arya appreciated more than words could ever say. “His half-brother Edric had just been legitimized, and the new Lord of Storm’s End requested the presence of all his known remaining kin. Cersei did a good job of killing Robert’s bastards, but she didn’t quite finish the job. And, well, with things being what they were, can you really blame Lord Edric for wanting to send the message that the Baratheons weren’t dead?”

Arya couldn’t blame Edric, but the blow still struck her cold all the same. Before the White Walkers came, she and Gendry had spent most every day wrapped up in each other, delighting in the revival of their companionship. _I had thought he was mine_ , she realized, her stomach sinking. _And maybe he was. But I…_ The truth was a bitter tea to swallow. _I ignored him. I forgot about him. I had assumed he would wait for me, but of course he leapt at the chance to have a family. Of course he left._

If Sansa saw any of Arya’s turmoil, she didn’t comment on it. “Last I had heard, he was hale and hearty, and being trained as a knight at his brother’s behest,” she said.

“Oh. Well. He did want to be a knight.” Arya didn’t know what else to say. Gendry had wanted a family. He had wanted a place to belong. He wanted to be worth something. It would be rotten of her to begrudge him finding all of that in Storm’s End.

Later, Brienne found her returning from practicing her swordsmanship. The lady warrior had become Sansa’s sworn shield when Arya wasn’t paying attention, and it seemed her sister put her faith in Brienne twice over. The older woman knew that Arya had been asking after Gendry. “You could send him a raven,” Brienne reminded her. “I’m sure he would appreciate hearing from his old friend.”

Arya, still trying to process her selfish resentment over Gendry’s departure, shook her head angrily. “He doesn’t know how to read,” she bit out.

“Do you really think the new Baratheon lord is giving his half-brother a knight’s training and no reading lessons?” asked Brienne. She sounded amused more than anything, which only served to worsen Arya’s mood.

“Lord Edric could be training him in the arts of pleasure like Lysene whore, and I would be none the wiser!” she spat, and then suddenly she was crying. Embarrassed, she wrenched away from Brienne, turning her face to the wall in a sorry attempt to hide her shame. “He left me. He was my pack, and he left!”

For a moment, Brienne said nothing. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but firm. “My lady, you left him first.”

Arya whirled around to glare at her. “How dare you? The Hound kidnapped me. I had no choice!” she hissed.

Brienne shook her head, unfazed by Arya’s anger. “I’m not talking about the Brotherhood Without Banners,” she said. “You left everyone. After the war, after your sister arrived, you went to your rooms and you refused to see anyone. I was there when the summons from Lord Edric came. I read the bloody letter to him. And I was there when he spent days agonizing over what to do. He had been turned away from seeing you so many times. You were his best friend, and you left. You wouldn’t see him even when he tried to say goodbye.”

“I…” Arya felt frozen by Brienne’s words. Had she really been so blind?

“And now you won’t even write him a letter.” The disappointment in Brienne’s voice was palpable as she turned and left Arya alone.

 

* * *

 

Arya took a simple kind of delight in relearning the politics of the North. As a child, she had all the names and sigils of the Northern noble houses drilled into her memory, but the years as an assassin in Braavos had done much to wipe away her knowledge. Every time Sansa reminded her of the name of Northern family, Arya felt a little more returned to herself. 

The lessons were more for Rickon’s benefit than for her own, Arya knew. It would only be a few years before Rickon would be older enough to hold the title of King in the North for himself, and the boy knew next to nothing about politics or the North. 

Some days, Sansa seemed to find the task of educating their youngest brother to be more insurmountable than the job of ruling the North in the interim. “He is lucky that he’s going to be king, because I cannot fathom why else any lady would want to marry such a beast,” Sansa groused to Arya over a mug of ale one evening. 

Arya, tipsy on more than her fair share of the drink, laughed and nudged her sister. Camaraderie with Sansa was new, and Arya was enjoying it. “Some women would prefer a beast of a man,” she whispered suggestively. 

“Arya!” admonished Sansa. Her cheeks were flushed pink as she shook her head, but the slight smile on her face suggested she wasn’t actually upset. “You are so crass.”

“Can I help it if I learned to be blunt like a Braavosi?” Arya asked and took another swig of her ale.

Sansa looked suddenly thoughtful. “Arya?” she asked quietly. “Are you still a maiden?”

Arya choked on her drink. “Are you?” she shot back.

Sansa arched an eyebrow at her. “I am a woman twice married,” she reminded her sister. 

“What did happen to Lord Hardyng anyways?” asked Arya. “Did Littlefinger arrange some unfortunate accident for him?”

Sansa laughed. “Goodness no. I took care of Littlefinger long before he could off my husband,” she said simply. “Harry is alive and well, and in the Eyrie.”

It was not the answer Arya was expecting. “You’re still married?” she asked in astonishment.

“I am. But Harry chose to stay behind to rule the Vale when I came home,” explained Sansa. “Ultimately, we are happier apart, I think. He has his mistresses, and I have my family back.”

“Sansa…” Suddenly, Arya saw how her older sister had survived King’s Landing. Her mask of courtesy and grace was carefully crafted, but for a moment it slipped and Arya caught a glimpse of the steely resolve that lay beneath. 

Then the mask was back in place, and Sansa smiled sweetly. “But enough about that. What about you? I would never force you into a marriage you didn’t want, I hope you know that, but you must understand that your title will look mighty desirable to many a lord.” Her voice was gently serious despite her smile.

“I’m not fit for marriage,” said Arya despairingly. “I will never be a lady, not like you are or how Mother was. That’s not me, Sansa.”

“I’m not asking you to be a lady,” Sansa promised. “I will shield you from every lord’s proposal if that’s what you want.”

Arya closed her eyes. She thought of Gendry holding her before the war, his blue eyes soft when he looked at her. She thought of Brienne’s harsh words telling her of his decision to go to the Stormlands. She thought of Sansa and of Rickon and of whatever remained of Bran. _I could be the wild aunt to any of their children. I could be the She-Wolf who never marries._ _I could stay forever in Winterfell._ She opened her eyes and looked at Sansa and told her, “That is what I want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags and summary updated with this chapter. Check me out on tumblr at oneletterdiff.


End file.
